A Bit Not Good
by MarMoo.12
Summary: In which John goes and gets himself kidnapped. Again. It's Sherlock to the rescue! Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

"So what have we got so far?" John asked Sherlock, rubbing his jaw and joining the detective in front of the wall of pictures and notes pertaining to their latest case; a serial killer who kidnapped his victims, tied them up, and proceeded to torture them for seemingly no reason before effectively ending their lives with a bullet straight through the head. The baddest of the bad.

Sherlock, without taking his eyes off the wall, answered John in his deep, monotonous voice.

"We're dealing with a mentally unstable man in his mid to late thirties. Lives alone, no family to speak of, no pets. Works a mundane job, presumably in an office cubicle of some sort. Something unsettling happened in his life recently, something that shook his resolve and triggered the killing spree; he got fired. The torture, while fuelled by uncontrollable rage, is pointless, seeing as the murderer and the victims have no connection whatsoever. There's nothing connecting the victims to each other, either. They differ in age, race, gender, occupation…"

Sherlock trailed off, deep in thought, bouncing slightly on his heels with barely contained excitement. John had long since come to terms with the fact that serial killers for Sherlock were equivalent to Christmas.

"The kidnappings take place at night, likely between nine o'clock and midnight. It takes approximately six hours for the body to be dumped. The killer has been choosing progressively more obvious locations to dispose of his victims, which means he's now begging to be caught. By now we can assume that he's more likely to be through in 3.5 hours, meaning we have less time to catch him," Sherlock grinned. "Oh how I _do_ love a chase!"

"Right. Have you any idea when or where he'll strike again?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed in concentration. He was now pacing in front of the wall of information, eyes squeezed tight as he thought. John could practically hear the gears turning in the sociopath's crazy brain.

Finally he stopped mid pace and looked at John with the tiniest trace of defeat.

"No idea. If I were to guess, I'd say within 32 hours."

John pursed his lips and grabbed his mobile from the cluttered table in the middle of the living room. With a sigh he sent Greg a quick text, summarizing all the information Sherlock just told him. The reply was swift.

_Come down here, we've got something_.

John quickly snatched his coat from the plush armchair behind him. He glanced at his watch. 9:30. "Listen, Lestrade thinks he's got something and wants us to go down to the station."

Sherlock shook his head, his brown curls flying. "You know I don't leave the flat for anything less than a seven. Text me when you get there."

John rolled his eyes and turned to leave. He was just at the stairs when Sherlock called after him.

"John!" John spun around on his heel to face the taller man. Sherlock seemed to hesitate for the briefest of moments before speaking. "Be careful."

John raised an eyebrow slightly at the sudden concern coming from the man who wasted no time or effort on sentiment, but said nothing. Instead, he gave the consulting detective a small nod and a half smile, then left to fetch a cab. Sherlock peered at John through the window until the doctor was in a cab and out of sight.

He couldn't shake the blossom of worry he suddenly felt. This was ridiculous. It wasn't _that_ late out, and the chances of the killer getting a hold of John were very slim. Very slim indeed. Sherlock argued with himself that there was nothing to be concerned about. John could take care of himself. He was the one with the gun. And Sherlock had much better things to be doing at the moment.

He pushed all emotions to the depths of his Mind Palace and continued to dissect every scrap of information regarding this lunatic of a serial killer.


	2. Chapter 2

John was halfway to the police station when he suddenly felt very dizzy. His vision was going in and out of focus and his breathing became quick and shallow. He barely had the chance to register this sudden dramatic change before he collapsed in the back seat of the cab.

_John was running. Running so hard that the scenery around him was a blur. His lungs were on fire and his muscles were screaming for a break, but he couldn't stop. Sweat poured from his face, the saltiness making his eyes sting. He heard footsteps behind him, getting closer and closer. John put on a burst of speed, using up the last of his adrenaline, and managed to get mere feet ahead of his pursuer. _

_Suddenly John was flying through the air, having just tripped over an invisible obstacle. He landed on his face and scrambled to get up again, but was too late. A boot came down hard on the middle of his back, pushing him back down on the ground. Funny enough, the pain one would normally associate with this type of action was not what John was feeling. He felt as though the boot was made of fire, searing the flesh as opposed to crushing it. The pressure of the boot increased to the point where John was screaming with pain. _

John snapped his eyes open mid scream, eyes trying to focus in the dimly lit surroundings. The pressure on his back was gone, though he could still feel the scorching burn. His throat felt raw and his head was pounding. Small details started to come into focus. His clothes were sticking to his skin with sweat and his breath was coming out in ragged gasps as if he had actually been running.

He was aware of his hands tied up above his head. The rope was digging into his skin. His toes just touched the stone floor. He was suspended from the ceiling.

_What the hell…_

John raised his head, ignoring the shooting pain. In front of him stood a middle aged man. He was grinning, but something was off. His eyes were crazed, and the grin was feral. His thinning hair stuck up in all directions. In his hands was a long metal rod, the tip fading from a glowing orange colour.

All at once the realization of his situation came crashing around John.

_No_, he thought. _No, no, no, no._

"You and I," sneered the killer. "We're going to have a little fun!"


	3. Chapter 3

The worry Sherlock had felt earlier in the evening slowly grew as time ticked by. 9:30 turned to 10:30 with no text from John. 10:30 rolled around agonizingly slow to 11:00, with Sherlock's mobile remaining stubbornly silent. Sherlock cursed to himself, wishing that he hadn't deleted Lestrade's number. He picked up his violin and began playing a random melody, desperate for a distraction.

He played for what felt like hours, finally setting his beloved instrument down and glancing at the clock.

11:30.

_That's it?!_ Sherlock thought to himself. _Half an hour? Sod this. _He grabbed his coat and scarf angrily.

Sherlock ran out of 221B, hailed a cab, and was walking into DI Lestrade's office within a matter of minutes. The detective inspector was leafing through files with a steaming mug of coffee in hand. He was engrossed with his work and failed to hear Sherlock's footsteps as he marched into the office.

"Where is he?" Sherlock demanded. Lestrade looked up in surprise, taken aback by the sudden hostility.

"Sorry?"

"John. Where is he?"

Lestrade frowned, confused. "John's not been in tonight, I thought he was with you!" he said, bewildered. "I asked him to stop by earlier. When he didn't come I assumed _you_ had roped him into another nightly adventure."

Sherlock's heart sank. He knew what had happened. Of course he knew. He just wouldn't let himself believe it. So typical of John to go and get himself kidnapped, _again_.

"I'm glad you're here actually," Lestrade said tiredly. "We've come to the conclusion that the killer is impersonating a cabbie. He's got a stolen taxi and has customized the back seat to produce halothane vapour, which is-"

"More commonly known as 'knockout gas'." Sherlock sighed, frustrated. He should have known. How else could he grab such a variety of people so quickly? The cabbies in London really were unreliable.

"Right," Lestrade said, rolling his eyes. "Anyway, a woman managed to escape and explained it all to us. She used to be a war doctor, just like John, so she recognized the vapour.

Sherlock glared at Lestrade venomously. "No one is just like John."

With that said, Sherlock was out the door before Lestrade could utter another word.

He was beginning to feel panicky. With a victim having escaped, the killer was likely to be even more aggressive. The time for the next victim's survival was cut in half, which meant that Sherlock had just over an hour to find his blogger alive. What had once been a fun chase to catch a killer had become a desperate scramble to save his only friend. The game was on, and this time Sherlock meant business.

"Tick, tock," cooed the deranged man in front of John. "Tick…. Tock…."

He was inching closer to John with a serrated knife. John now had blood tricking down his arms from the rough rope tied around his wrists. He found the sensation more annoying than painful, though this could be from the agony emanating from the rest of his battered body.

His back now had multiple blisters where the red hot metal seared his flesh. His ribs were bruised, and he was fairly certain one or two may be broken. There were shallow cuts along his torso in a criss-cross pattern. Suffice it to say, his wrists were the least of his concerns at this point.

The man inched closer and closer with that feral snarl on his face, the knife poised above his head, ready to attack. John closed his eyes and prayed for this madness to be over. He felt like he'd been tied up for years.

He remembered what Sherlock had said earlier. He knew he had very little time before a bullet made its home inside his skull. _Sherlock_. John was filled with sadness as he thought of all the things he'd never get to say to his best friend. All the things he'd never get to do with him.

In the face of certain death, John realized just how much he _truly_ loved his flatmate. Loved the way his dark brown curls would bounce when he walked. Loved the way his piercing blue eyes would spark when he got excited about a case. Loved how John was the only person he'd let into his protective shell.

John let a single tear trickle down his bloody cheek.

He felt the jagged knife skate across his neck teasingly. There wasn't enough pressure to break the skin. Suddenly, as if he was poisonous, the killer backed off and threw the knife on the concrete floor.

"No time!" He shouted. "No time! No! We have to do it now. Yes, before they come."

John stopped trying to make sense of his attacker's words after the first fifteen minutes of torture, but now he sensed the end was nigh. John, being a soldier at heart, refused to let the fear in his gut make its way to his face.

He heard the familiar click of an armed pistol and looked up with a hard expression on his face. No way was this madman going to get the satisfaction of a weepy death. The barrel was pointed right between his eyes. _Well_, thought John. _Here we go_…

And then John heard the most beautiful sound to ever grace his ears.

"Hmm. Dark and dank warehouse, kidnapping via taxi… It's all very cliché. _Boring_, really. I should have known this was nothing more than a 5.8 at best."


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello everyone! I know it's been a looong time since you've seen a chapter, and I know this one is quite short, but I'm now back at school which means I'm going to be procrastinating like a boss, which means you'll be seeing more chapters yaaaay! Happy holidays to all :) **

John's heart fluttered with hope as he looked over the killer's shoulder. He saw Sherlock standing, back straight, with a gun aimed at the murderer. The corners of John's mouth turned up in a small smile. Most definitely not a hallucination.

Sherlock looked calm as ever, except for his eyes, which flashed with deep fury. John let out a barely audible cry of relief. Sherlock glanced over at John, observed his current state, and the rage in his eyes intensified.

"Back. Away. Now," Sherlock said, his voice now having no trace of sarcasm. He sounded deadly. John had never seen Sherlock look so frightening.

The crazed murderer did no such thing. Instead, he hurled the gun at Sherlock and charged. The sudden motion through the detective off and gave the man a chance to tackle him. The two hit the concrete with a solid thud, both weapons flying off in opposite directions. John was forced to watch as a struggle ensued, trying uselessly to free his hands.

Sherlock finally got the upper hand and had the killer pinned underneath him.

"Why?" He shouted furiously. "Why did you take him?!"

The gasping man beneath Sherlock was suddenly very quiet. He stared up at Sherlock with mischief in his eyes. "Because it's fun." He said, and started to laugh.

Sherlock jumped off of him and stared down at the laughing man with disgust. Sherlock went and picked up his gun that was lying a few feet across the room. He stood over the still chuckling murderer and pointed the gun at his head. John stared at Sherlock as the detective hesitated. John knew Sherlock wasn't a killer, but the look on his face said otherwise.

Instead of shooting him, Sherlock poured all his anger into a backhanded pistol-whip. The man immediately stopped laughing.

Sherlock glared at the killer on the floor and tucked his gun in the back of his pants.

"Sherlock," John muttered feebly. Sherlock snapped his head up as if suddenly remembering there was another person in the room. The rage in his eyes drained quickly, only to be replaced by tender worry. He rushed over to John and began to untie John's hands.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked softly.

John was going to attempt to put on a brave face, but knew the detective would see right through it.

"A bit not good," he said weakly.

Soon his hands were free and he hit the floor, falling into Sherlock's arms. The last thing he remembered before passing out was Sherlock's soft curls caressing his forehead and a pair of lips pressed gently to his nose.

* * *

The first thing John was aware of when he awoke was the quiet beeping of a machine. Then the smell of antiseptic. And finally, something very warm covering his left hand. His eyes fluttered open, and the memories of the warehouse came crashing in like a tidal wave. He squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to be rid of the thoughts, but they were relentless. He vividly remembered the feeling of being burned, cut, beaten, toyed with… It was almost worse than his war flashbacks.

John grabbed the sheets he was on and balled his hands into fists, tugging at the fabric. Suddenly, the warm thing on his hand squeezed back, and just like that, he was back in reality. John opened his eyes and looked over.

There sat the world's only consulting detective, with messy hair, bleary eyes, and a pile of coffee cups at his side.


	5. Chapter 5

"Sherlock," John muttered feebly.

Sherlock looked at John and smiled, squeezing his hand a little harder as if to reassure himself that his blogger was indeed alive. Relief was painted all over his face, as well as deep lines of exhaustion. It was obvious he hadn't slept in a while.

"Sherlock, what happened? How did you find me? Did you ever discover who-"

"Shhh," Sherlock cut John off, placing a single slender finger on the soldier's lips to silence him. "You still need rest. You've been through unimaginable pain. Just relax and let me explain,"

John nodded slowly, and Sherlock withdrew his finger.

"When you didn't text me after leaving I knew something was amiss and went down to the station. Lestrade told me you hadn't been in, and I immediately knew you'd been taken. You do have a tendency to get yourself kidnapped,"

John let out a noise of protest, but Sherlock waved him off and continued.

"He informed me that the killer was impersonating a cabbie. He would seal the backseat and then release halothane vapour to knock his victims unconscious. Of course this made perfect sense, though it has permanently tarnished my trust of the London taxi system. I knew that the killer was deteriorating, and his next victim would surely be dead much sooner than the last. I knew I had to find you soon, or it would be too late…" Sherlock trailed off and looked at his feet, lost in the memory of his temporary moment of sheer panic. John could see that Sherlock was troubled.

"But you _did_ find me," John said reassuringly. Sherlock looked up at John and gave him the smallest of smiles before resuming his explanation.

"So I found the nearest warehouses that were closest to the route you would have taken and narrowed it down to two; the abandoned shoe company and the old slaughterhouse. Seeing as mental patients commonly lean towards the more dramatic side of life, I determined that the likely spot was the slaughterhouse. So I stole a car and drove there as fast as I could, arriving seemingly just in time."

"Wait, wait, wait. Back up. You stole a car?" John asked incredulously, eyebrows raised in shock.

"It seemed the logical thing to do, John. I needed transportation and a car was the quickest solution," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. John gently shook his head, but said nothing. He was starting to feel a little weary again.

"Sherlock, thank you," John said. He looked straight into the detective's eyes. "Thank you for saving my life. Again. I don't know what I would do without you…"

"Nor I," The brunette murmured. The two simply looked at each other, basking in the warm company of each other's presence, until John's eyes began to droop.

"Right," Sherlock said, standing up. "You need your rest, and I need to sort out some paperwork with Lestrade." He gave John one final smile before turning to leave.

"Sherlock wait," John said. A slow blush made its way to his cheeks against his will. "Will you be here when I wake up?" He sounded very timid, as if terrified of the answer.

"Always," Sherlock said with a wink. And with that he was out the door. John sighed and leaned back into his pillows, allowing sleep to finally take him.

**I know this kind of seems like the end, but it's not! There's no way no how I'm ending this story without a little smooch ;) Stay tuned! **


	6. Chapter 6

**Okay everyone, we made it. This is the final chapter! I didn't get to say it before, but thank you to all who have reviewed and subscribed and favourited and all that good stuff! You all rock. Keep calm and Johnlock on ;) **

John was finally allowed to leave the hospital after a week of recovery. His rib fracture was small, and he was told numerous times that he was lucky, and that it could have been so much worse. This combined with his medical background meant that John got to leave St. Bart's weeks earlier than the average fractured-rib person, something which John was deeply grateful for. He didn't think he could stand another crumb of the bland hospital food, though Sherlock's daily presence and home made tea certainly eased the pain.

And so the two made their way back to 221B Baker Street, with John leaning on Sherlock the whole way. They decided against hailing a taxi, for obvious reasons, and had to walk all the way back. Sherlock refused to call Mycroft for a ride, and John, though still in pain, was eager for some fresh air.

When they finally got back to the flat, Sherlock did something completely out of character. Before John could place one foot on the steps, Sherlock tugged him back, scooped him up, and carried him up the flight of stairs.

"Sherlock!" John cried out in surprise. The detective ignored him. When they arrived in the living room Sherlock gently placed John in his favourite chair.

"I can walk you know," John said. He was unable to keep the humour out of his voice. Sherlock had transformed ever since rescuing John from certain death. He was no longer arrogant and cold, at least towards John. There _was_ an incident with a nurse whom he deemed unqualified to perform John's blood test. He ended up doing it himself. John couldn't stop laughing. Poor nurse.

He was much more affectionate, like how he made tea and brought it to John everyday because he knew the soldier could not stand hospital food. And the mere fact that he did visit everyday was a shock to John, though he was not quick to complain. Sherlock was never one to show concern. Ever. He said himself that caring for people would not help to save them. John didn't know why there was a sudden shift in personality, but he was going to enjoy every second of it.

Sherlock brought John a steaming cup of tea and sat down in the armchair opposite him with his own mug. They were finally back to normality. Or so John thought. He was completely oblivious to the inner turmoil of his colleague.

Sherlock was at war with himself. Normally, he tried to keep a cool, weary distance between himself and others, as much for their protection as his own. But ever since the simple, rather _dull_, capture of the latest criminal, he had been acting more and more….human. Letting his emotions take over, he had become _affectionate_ and _caring_. Two things he swore to himself he'd never be.

But he couldn't help himself. All of the sudden he had an uncontrollable need to be around John. To help him and nurture him, like a mother hen. It was ridiculous. However, he found that he didn't really mind. His brain said he should go back to his calculating self, but his gut told him that this new relationship between him and John wasn't something to fear. This tug of war was driving him crazy. He needed John's opinion.

"John," Sherlock said quietly.

John looked up from his laptop, where he was posting a new blog entry about his latest 'adventure'.

Sherlock looked into his blogger's eyes. Those eyes that held such tenderness and loyalty, but had seen horrific violence. Those eyes that had just recently witnessed the truth behind human brutality. Sherlock couldn't do it. He didn't want to lose this man. This one was different from the rest. This one was special. His only friend.

"Never mind," he muttered, trying to conceal his emotions with a mask of indifference. But John saw. Of course John saw. He'd been feeling the same way. Wordlessly, he got up and walked over to Sherlock, who was now looking at his feet. John grabbed the consulting detective's hand and pulled him up so that they were standing almost nose to nose. Sherlock said nothing, only looked at him with confusion and curiosity. John leaned in ever so slowly and kissed his best friend. And immediately Sherlock knew the winner of the tug of war going on inside him.

Sherlock curled his arms around the shorter man's waist and pulled him closer. John wove his fingers through Sherlock's curly hair and tilted his head to deepen the kiss. The two fit together perfectly, like the one puzzle piece you can never find until the very end. Sherlock pulled back just enough to smile against John's lips. Yes, this one was a keeper.

* * *

It was a Sunday morning. Well, it was more like Sunday _afternoon_. John and Sherlock were lying in bed, their limbs entangled, enjoying the aftershock. Who knew they were just as compatible in bed as they were in solving crimes? The sun beat down on the sheets, warming their skin. Sherlock was flopped across John's chest, with John's arm draped over his back lazily. There was unspoken contentment in the air, and neither was willing to break the comfortable silence.

Just then, Sherlock's mobile buzzed from the bedside table. With a groan, he flung him arm over and grabbed the phone, reading the text quickly.

_Got a nice triple homicide for you. 54 Lexicon Ave. –Lestrade_

Sherlock showed the text to John, who sighed with disappointment. He was in no mood to do anything but lie in bed with Sherlock all day. But alas, he knew the detective would hardly be able to resist a nice juicy murder. He made to get up when Sherlock gripped his waist and pulled him back down. With a mischievous grin, he tossed the phone to the other side of the room.

John chuckled.

"I could get used to this," he said with a smile.

Sherlock responded by leaning up and kissing his favourite person.

"Me too."

And so the world's only consulting detective and his blogger lay in bed all Sunday, laughing, talking, and loving every second of it.


End file.
